Poor, Poor Moist
by SJF96
Summary: A disturbance in Albert Spangler's cell.
1. Chapter 1

As a general rule sleep was hard to come by on Death Row, but the prisoner known as Albert Spangler* was managing it. He sat slumped against the cell wall, hand grasping a worn sliver of pot-metal which vaguely resembled a spoon. A little pile of debris on the floor beside him seemed to have dropped from the mortar around a particularly large block in the wall, and a keen observer would notice a glint of metal filings mixed in with the stone dust.

The Tanty guards _were_ keen observers, and had followed Spangler's efforts with great interest. They weren't worried about escape- every prisoner tried something, and as far as the attempts went this one was quiet and wouldn't be too difficult to repair. Besides, they had already set a new stone directly behind the one Spangler was so industriously freeing. The question now was whether or not he would finish before the hanging.

The prison was constantly bathed in semi-darkness, but there was a suggestion of dawn approaching. A lone guard passed the cell, noting the night's progress approvingly. He had money riding on the completion of the hole, and hoped Spangler would tidy up before daylight. It would be a pity to have to find him out. His footsteps faded away as he rounded the corner.

A breeze blew up, tipping off the summit of the pile of dust and ruffling Spangler's overgrown haircut. He flinched and sat bolt upright, looking around wildly**. Seeing only the empty cell, he relaxed and turned to observe the night's handiwork. He didn't remember falling asleep, but it was lucky he'd woken up before the guards saw the dust. It was quite a pile. A week more of this, maybe less, and he was free! He bent to sweep up the debris, and paused. The wind was getting very strong-almost approaching a roar. Wind of any kind was rare in the heart of the Tanty, and he'd certainly never felt anything this powerful.

He turned around and had to clap his hand to his mouth to prevent a shout. There was a _shape_ in the middle of the cell. Big, rectangular, and solidifying every second. Spangler pressed himself against the cell wall. It was some sort of blue booth, tall enough to scrape against the cell roof. Lettering across the top-POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX- and little frosted windows cast beams of light which cut through the dust-filled gloom. Spangler stared. It was magic, obviously, but why? Who?

The wind stopped. Slowly, with an impressive sense for the dramatic, a door in the side facing Spangler swung open. Light spilled out, framing him against the wall.

This was too much. There was an entire _room-_

"What are you waiting for? Get a move on!" A hand darted out of the doorway, grabbed a surprised Spangler by the collar, and hoisted him through.

* At least, to the justice system. To various individuals across the Plains he was known by many names. Generally they gained a common suffix of 'that thieving bastard' once he was a disappearing dust cloud on the horizon.

**Years on the road had given him certain reflexes. If you didn't wake up and wake up fast at the first sign of a disturbance, it would be too late to evade the angry mob.

_Just the beginning, sorry it's short. More to follow soon. Comments and especially constructive criticism much appreciated: I've never tried writing Pratchett before and, well, you be the judge._


	2. Chapter 2

Spangler stared. The box's interior was impossibly big, all crisp white and blinking lights, and with a round, mechanism-covered console in the centre. Clearly some kind of wizardry, but the man currently lecturing him didn't seem to be a wizard. Spangler had never bothered much with magic, but in his experience wizards tended to be old, fat, and bearded. They did not have curly blond hair and a coat that looked like an explosion in the Alchemists' laboratory*.

"Now, my name is the Doctor-" something about the pronunciation gave a definite impression of a capital 'D' "-and this is the TARDIS. I realize the experience is overwhelming, but please try to relax. You've been caught up in something of a temporal event, hardly surprising in such a shabby reality."

Spangler managed to operate his mouth. "Sorry, who-"

"Oh, no need to apologize, Mr. Lipwig. I'm here to sort out, after all." the Doctor brushed past him, performing a complex action which caused the room to lurch as if it had taken off**. Knocked off balance, Spangler clutched at the console.

"Er, the name's Spangler, actually," said Lipwig reflexively, mind churning. Maybe the man _was_ a wizard. He had the self-importance. The university gave doctorates, after all.

"Don't lie to your host, it isn't polite. You are the soon-to-be celebrated Moist Von Lipwig, former con artist and, from this reality's point of view, a very important man." The Doctor swept around the console. Moist followed.

"So...you're rescuing me, then?" That much seemed clear.

"Rescuing you?" the Doctor said absently, fiddling with the controls. "Whatever from?"

"Um. Death Row?"

The Doctor seemed offended."Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't meddle in something like this. No, just a quick job to do and we'll have you right back where you belong."

Moist wasn't comforted. "You're going to let me be _executed_?"

The Doctor sighed. "I'm going to let events unroll. Not doing so would be extremely inadvisable."

"But I'll die!"

"Listen. Reality on your world is...subjective. Stretchable. Through a combination of magic, belief, and...I believe it's called 'narrativium'...certain people and events are more _real_ than others. They act as weights or fixed points, keeping things stable. If they're interfered with, the entire reality is jeopardized." The room rocked again. "We've arrived. Time to-"

"Arrived where?"

The Doctor sighed impatiently. "Recently time in your world underwent a major disturbance. The monks have done their best, but they're frankly amateurs and it was shattered almost beyond repair. Fortunately for you, I'm here to sort it out, recalibrate the fixed points so everything settles back down."

"I haven't noticed anything shattering." An _insane_ wizard, thought Moist. Well, it's a better chance than the spoon.

"You wouldn't. I, on the other hand, am a Time Lord. Now stop asking questions and go open the door."

"What?"

"_Go open the door_. There's someone about to knock."

"Who?" Someone knocked sharply on the door.

"Someone important."

*This was a common occurrence, and the resultant spectacle of colour was a regular source of entertainment for the Ankh-Morpork citizenry.

** In a sense, this is exactly what had happened.

_A brief respite from my other commitments has allowed me to update! I'm not very happy with this chapter***** but I really wanted to put something up, even if it's rough. I AM going to fix this up at some point with everyone more in character and the whole thing more polished, so feel free to make suggestions!_

_Incidentally, I just realized what a terrible name I gave this story. I'm a bit handicapped when it comes to titles, and this one was my attempt at making a clever reference. It's really obscure and not very amusing even if you catch it. If anyone identifies it, you get my admiration and bonus points. **Hint: It's red and yellow and green and brown and BLUE!**_

_*****If something this short and confusing can be called a chapter...it's more like a burble._

_...and of course I can stop using footnotes. Anytime I want to.  
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